


Priorities

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dehydration, Desert Island, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Natasha wakes up on the shore of a desert island with no recent memories, she takes the first steps into her immediate survival.





	Priorities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



It was the gentle waves, warm against her cheek that roused her. She blinked a few times, the sun bright against her eyes. There was no pain, only a disorienting fog over her thoughts, like she'd been drugged. How long had she been out? What had happened?

Natasha sluggishly got to her feet, her boots sinking in the wet sand. She stumbled up to the dry beach, and tried to take in her surroundings. The beach, the jungle beyond it, the expanse of the ocean behind her, and worst of all, no recollection of how she got there.

She tried to remember anything, but what came back to her were flashes from the rest of her life, not the moments leading up to being stranded... wherever this was. She could remember the vibration of the ballet master's club through the floor during morning warm ups, the warmth of blood on her hands, the look on Clint's face as he had her cornered and slowly lowering his bow instead. But anything from the last few days, the last _month_ , it was a dark spot.

Where had she been? How did she end up here? Who did this to her? Why couldn't she remember?

How or why wasn't unimportant, but there were priorities. If this was indeed a deserted island, she had work to do. Find fresh water. Construct a shelter. Food, if she could find it, but that was low on the list. Dehydration and the elements were her greatest enemies. That was assuming there weren't snipers in the jungle waiting to kill her, but it seemed like a stretch considering she'd been dumped on a desert island, presumably to die. 

Everything else could come later.

Natasha patted down her pockets and found she was still equipped with her weapons. It wasn't much that would be helpful here, except for perhaps her pocket knives, and maybe her garrotte. The widow's bite had only a few charges in it, assuming it was still charged up at all. Even still, she felt better being armed than she would have without them. It's the little things.

Already sweating, she stripped out of her wet leather jacket, tying the arms of it around her waist. Her boots were deeply impractical for the sand, the heels sinking with each step, making the trek twice as hard as it should have been.

"I can't believe I'm on a desert island and I don't even have those five books I said I'd bring," she muttered as trudged up toward the jungle. The beach was probably the place to set up a shelter, but the jungle seemed like the obvious place to go for fresh water.

Even in her tank top, sweat built up under her arms, and she was constantly wiping her brow to keep the sweat from dripping into her eyes. As she approached the jungle, it was easier to walk, the ground a more compact clay than shifting sand, but the humidity increased. 

_Steve._

The thought hit Natasha out of nowhere. That's the last thing she remembered. The quinjet, with Steve and Sam, after a mission. How could she have forgotten? It had been high stakes, high stress, and after they were out, they'd been laughing, a release valve on the tension. She couldn't quite make it all out, but it was something Steve had said, and his hand had been on her shoulder.

Just because it was the last thing she remembered didn't mean it was the last thing that had happened before... this. It could have been a day ago, or a month. But it was just as likely that Steve and Sam had been captured too, left to die on islands. Maybe even somewhere else on this island.

Natasha looked over her shoulder, back at the beach. She could walk the perimeter looking for them. No, priorities. Water. Shelter. Rescue missions later. They were big boys, they could take care of themselves--and hopefully they were. There was no telling if they were even here. She could keep an eye out for them while she worked on her own priorities. She hoped they were doing the same. It was the only way they would survive.

She went into the jungle, moving silently over fallen sticks and branches. The heat was worse and the air was thick, trapped in the lush greenery. However, the saturated air left beads of sweat across the huge leaves of the ferns she passed. Natasha leaned over and slurped the water away from them. It wasn't much, just enough to wet the inside of her mouth, but it kept her satiated until she could get the real thing.

Twice, she thought she heard the sound of running water, but there didn't seem to be source. Was it wishful thinking or someone screwing with her? Maybe the snipers weren't so far fetched after all.

The longer she walked, going on a second mile now, the paranoia increased. Was this one of those most dangerous game situations? What could be more challenging for a eccentric billionaire that some rogue Avengers? It would explain why she was still armed, for the added challenge.

No, Natasha thought, centering herself. It was exhaustion and the disorientation, along with dehydration. She was (probably) not being hunted. Auditory hallucinations could be a side effect of the drugs that knocked her out and wiped her memory. She wanted to hear running water, so she did.

When she finally found a spring, she literally stumbled into it, soaking her boots again, but she didn't care. She dropped to her knees and drank deeply, cholera be damned. 

It was almost immediate, the clarity of her mind, her senses sharpening with each gulp of the cool water. So when she heard a branch snap behind her, it was one fluid movement to get to her feet and spin around, pocket knife extended--at Steve's throat.

"It's me," he said, his hands up, palms out. 

"Steve." She put the knife away and pulled him into a hug. His arms wrapped around her and even though they were both sticky, it felt good. She wasn't alone. If she was going to go crazy, they were going to do it together. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," he replied, pulling back to get a look at her face, but he didn't release her arm from his grasp. "The last thing I remember was the jet going down, but... something doesn't seem right."

"We crashed?" Natasha asked. God, was this all just a normal plane crash? It seemed so simple now that Steve was here, and she'd had something to drink. Her paranoid thoughts seemed almost foolish--almost. "I don't remember that."

Steve's jaw set in an ironic grimace. "Yeah, well, planes going into the water stick out in my mind."

She nodded. "Sam?"

"I haven't seen him. We'll find him soon."

"Do you have a plan?" Natasha asked.

"A plan? No." Steve knelt down next to the spring and cupped his hands to gather some of the water. He made a loud slurping noise as he drank. "I've got a wish list. Found two of them right here."

"What's next on the list, then?"

He looked up at her. "Survive. You ready?"

She smiled. "That's what I do."


End file.
